


embrace the deception (learn how to bend)

by ChristyCorr



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Case Fic, Fake Psychic, M/M, No Spoilers, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:52:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristyCorr/pseuds/ChristyCorr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A botched drugs bust brings together Mike Ross, the NYPD’s new pet psychic, and Detective Harvey Specter, who doesn’t buy his bullshit for a second.</p>
            </blockquote>





	embrace the deception (learn how to bend)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by the amazing [firstlightofeos](archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos). ♥
> 
> This is an AU loosely based on _Psych_ , but no prior knowledge of the show is necessary. The title's from the [theme song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LeAfkYZ4LIk).

Harvey spared a glance at Mike Ross's file before stepping into the interrogation room: college dropout, unemployed, no priors. Litt had caught the kid with a briefcase full of pot during a routine drugs bust; Ross had been found alone in a Midtown apartment suspected to be the hub of a small-scale drug distribution network.

All in all, this was a boring, straightforward case not worth Harvey's time. Still, he was the most senior officer on duty; he might as well make sure Litt hadn't somehow managed to screw up one of the most pedestrian duties of a police officer ( _again_ ).

"Mr. Ross," he said, striding briskly into the room and slamming the file on the desk. Ross flinched. Harvey wondered how long it would take to bring the kid to tears. "I'm sure you have a fascinating story to explain exactly why you were carrying twelve pounds of pot. Let's hear it."

"Okay, yeah. But wait, first, the greasy hair outside? Definitely holding his wife hostage in his cabin in the Catskills."

Harvey arched an eyebrow. "Are you seriously trying to talk your way out of a trafficking charge by making yourself a person of interest in a missing persons case?"

"No, no, I don't even know him, but it's obvious, isn't it? I mean, the man doesn’t even look sad. And that scary redhead who’s trying to shake down the biker for the beating—you can tell her she’s barking up the wrong tree altogether. He’s got a great alibi, but he’s a textbook case of self-loathing homophobia, so he’ll never spill.”

Harvey leaned on the back of the chair. Well, Ross scored points for originality and creativity, at least, and his evident lack of self-preservation made the whole thing even funnier. He gave the kid a _please-elaborate_ wave and his best predatory smirk. If he wanted to dig his own grave, Harvey wasn’t going to be the one to stand between him and the shovel.

“I’m—I’m not confessing to anything, okay? I’m just trying to help out.”

“Help out,” Harvey echoed, amused.

“Yeah, I mean, I thought maybe if I help you guys solve some of your open cases, we could make this whole thing go away? I’m _good_. Give me a chance, and I swear to you I can outsmart any badge out there.”

He didn’t even look all that twitchy; he seemed more earnest than anything. The whole situation was beyond ridiculous, but the kid was entertaining, if nothing else. Harvey sat down; he might as well humor Ross. “The McClutsky case.”

“The dude obviously asked reception for a fake wake-up call so he could sneak out of the hotel, take a train to kill his wife, and be back in time to be seen having breakfast. He prerecorded himself answering the phone, and bang, alibi. There’s an app for that nowadays. I’d show you, but—” he rattled the cuffs, and smiled cheekily. “I read a novel in elementary school that was just like that.”

Harvey stared. He’d been stumped on that case for weeks now, and Ross’s theory, though improbable, fit the facts far better than any other hypothesis thus far. “You read a novel. In elementary school.”

Ross shrugged. “I read a lot.”

Yes, because _that_ was the most dubious aspect of this outlandish interrogation.

“Mr. Ross,” Harvey said, almost hoping for a good answer, “give me one reason not to assume you’re somehow implicated in murder, kidnapping, assault, and drug trafficking.” 

“No, dude, I told you: the facts are all there—it’s not my fault your people can’t do their jobs properly. No offense, you’re decent, but I mean, that Litt guy is completely incompetent. He had no probable cause to search me; I wasn’t even inside the apartment he had a warrant for!” Harvey made a mental note to rip Litt a new one. The kid was right. “I dare you to find precedent to back this one up—spoiler alert, there isn’t any. It’ll never fly. We both know you don’t have a case. I’m just trying to make things a little easier for you, really.” That goddamned cheeky grin was back. “And maybe collect some reward money for quality crime-solving while I’m at it.”

Harvey’s lips twitched. “And what exactly were you planning to do with the twelve pounds of cannabis you just happened to be carrying?”

Ross looked truly apprehensive for the first time. Judging by his demeanor, he’d already settled on his story, but he lacked the nerve to spit it out. He squared his shoulders and let out a shaky breath before looking Harvey straight in the eye—a dead giveaway that utter bullshit was bound to follow.

“Personal use. For my visions, you know? That’s how I know all this stuff, really.” 

Harvey raised both eyebrows, unimpressed. 

Ross shrugged, and smiled ruefully. “I’m psychic.”

**

Detective Specter was an intriguing man. Mike had been searching his mental news clippings for all mentions of the guy ever since he’d stepped into the interrogation room (thankfully, Litt wasn’t in charge anymore—weird, since Specter wasn't DEA). His mind was in overdrive—at least he’d skipped his customary morning hit today, so he was firing on all cylinders (for once).

For starters, Specter wasn’t intimidated by the media—or anyone else, for that matter. He stood right next to Chief Pearson during every press conference, and had his own version of her never-bullshit-a-bullshitter stance down pat. He’d famously caught the Ice Truck Killer two years ago (strange speech pattern in the announcement, though; it had been more personal than he’d let on). He’d been in charge of the Wyatt clusterfuck for two months now, but probably hadn’t made any headway—how could he, when everyone kept missing the fact that the murderer was obviously a Nora Roberts fanatic? Honestly, didn’t people _read_?

He’d been a Detective in Homicide for four years now, after six years in Vice under then-Lieutenant Hardman (Captain, as of November 18, 2011; the press release had been too cheerful, he’d probably blackmailed his way to the promotion). Case reports from that period seemed to indicate some tension between the two—unsurprising, then, that Specter had moved to work for Captain Pearson, who had gone on the record against Hardman in 8 different IA cases, and undoubtedly hated his guts. 

(Mike had never been more grateful for that one summer a couple of years ago that he’d spent as a temp organizing the precinct’s old case archives.)

Specter’s murder-solve rate was 85.49%, the highest in the precinct, and he had a clear preference for catching pseudo-smart criminals who over-planned. He’d had seventeen bylines in his high school paper, which Mike used to borrow from a neighbor as a kid—decent style, but not promising for a career in creative writing. His case notes were meticulous, but something about the voice wasn’t right; he didn’t write them himself, in all likelihood dictated an outline and someone who knew him well filled in the blanks. Probably not his partner, Dana Scott, whose reports were far less detailed. He wore a nice suit—Zegna, 2011 autumn/winter catalogue, page 43—but his watch was a mediocre brand—bankrupt since 1985—slightly scratched on the side. It probably had sentimental value.

Specter was carrying a thin file, with “Michael Ross” typed on the label. Twenty-four pages, judging by the thickness: arrest report, search warrant, investigation summary, school record, something attesting he wasn’t in the system, and hey, that left about three pages unexplained—interesting.

He slammed the file on the desk; Mike jumped. This seemed to please Specter, for some reason. Jerk. 

“Mr. Ross, I'm sure you have a fascinating story to explain exactly why you were carrying twelve pounds of pot,” he drawled, all condescension. “Let's hear it."

 _Fascinating_ , oh yeah, sure. Fuck, he was going to _kill_ Trevor for not realizing the cops were onto him. Luckily for him, all they’d got was Mike, who was of course going to walk out of this without so much as a slap on the wrist. He shouldn’t even have been arrested in the first place, but Litt had refused to listen. Maybe he could sue the precinct—being wrongfully manhandled, cuffed and questioned was bound to constitute intentional infliction of emotional distress. The extra payload could help pay for Gram’s nursing home.

"Okay, yeah,” Mike said, and paused for a second, eyes widening as his brain made a new connection, unbidden. That big guy with long greasy hair, sort of a Vincent Vega-Severus Snape hybrid from hell, who had been talking about his missing wife with obvious distancing language—he’d been in the background of a parking lot photo in the Acra local newspaper two weeks ago, unloading a cart full of ropes and duct tape into the trunk of his Humvee. There was a sports water bottle on the dashboard, barely beginning to sweat: he hadn’t driven long. “But wait, first, the greasy hair outside? Definitely holding his wife hostage in his cabin in the Catskills."

Specter arched an eloquent eyebrow.

Oh, damn, now Mike had to talk his way out of _two_ charges.

**

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Harvey suppressed a wince. He had known from the get-go that Mike Ross would be a hard sell, but Jessica was proving to be more intractable than he’d expected. Giving him a tour of the precinct had, in hindsight, not been a good idea. Ross’s drive-by revelation regarding the infamous Callahan triple homicide a few minutes ago—which had all but proven the current suspect’s innocence and exposed them all to ridicule—didn’t exactly put him in the Chief’s good graces.

“You have a shiny new toy, I can see that. But you’ll get bored in a day or two. In the meantime, every minute you parade around the building with your twelve-year-old pet in tow, you’re making a mockery of everything this precinct stands for. No. The kid has to go, _now_.”

“He’s intelligent, Jessica. He can be a real asset, trust me.”

She bristled. “He’s a _psychic_.”

“Well, of course I don’t buy that crap for a second. He’s just...intuitive or something. The point is: he’s good at this. He just needs some training.”

“Then talk him into going to the Police Academy, and then he can join the force just like everyone else.” Her stern voice softened for a moment. “I know you think no one can replace Scotty, Harvey, but we both know you do need a new partner—a real one, not some wet-behind-the-ears hack. I couldn’t possibly condone this.”

“He solved eight open cases in the two hours I’ve known him—one of which he has an iron-clad alibi for, because it was a crime of passion that happened while we were in the interrogation room. He knows the law; he knows procedure; he even knows forensics.” Harvey hesitated for a moment before admitting, “He’s _interesting_.”

She drew a long-suffering breath, and Harvey knew he’d won. “One case, Detective.”

Excellent, she’d given them an inch. They wouldn’t need more than one high-profile case to make an impression. “Thank you, Chief,” he said smugly, and she rolled her eyes.

“Just so we’re clear, this is _not_ a trial period,” Jessica warned, pointing at the door. “It’s just a compromise to get this kid out of your system, and you out of my office.”

“Sir,” Harvey said with a smirk, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a new partner to train.”


End file.
